Lies of Omission
by smithereen
Summary: Peyton wants what she can't have. NathanPeytonBrookeLucas. With a PeytonBrooke slant.


**Lies of Omission**

*

The mall was not a place for deep spiritual revelations. Traditionally. It was more a place for the unrepentantly, purposefully shallow. Half price off sales and greasy pizza weren't exactly conducive to deep thoughts or self-examination. But it was at the mall, halfway between Sbarro and Gap Kids that Peyton was struck by the thunderbolt force of a thought so sudden and surprising it stopped her in her tracks, the bag she'd been swinging against her leg dropping out of her nerveless fingers.

When she realized Peyton was no longer next to her, Brooke turned around, and put her hands on her hips, her head cocked to the side. "Pick up the pace, P. Sawyer," she said. "There are salespeople up ahead waiting anxiously for me to press my credit card into their sweaty little palms." She walked backward a few steps as she spoke, then whirled around to face forward again, executing a little skip before turning back one more time to flash a wide smile over her shoulder.

Peyton slowly bent to pick the bag up off the floor, the smile lingering like an afterimage burned into her retinas. She forced herself to jog a few steps to bring her back to Brooke's side. Brooke smiled at her again, tucking her arm underneath Peyton's. And Peyton crooked her elbow automatically, linking them together the way they'd done a million times before. The way they'd never done before. Not since the thunderbolt of epiphany had struck two minutes ago. And Peyton realized not for the first time that Brooke's skin was soft and warm, and that her eyes were brighter than the eyes of anyone else Peyton knew.

That night she turned the thought over and over, looking at it from every angle, running her hands over it to get the feel of it. It felt cold like fear, and it felt smooth like a well-worn river stone, and it felt like a stranger she'd always known. She rolled it in her mouth, but didn't let it out. Not yet. Not until she was standing in the shower, with her hands braced on the tile and too hot water turning her skin painfully red. She let the thought out on an exhale, and it was too soft to hear over the pounding water, but she heard it like an avalanche, and she felt things crumble inside her, jagged-edged parts of herself cutting and tearing as they tumbled into new places. When the dust settled, she stepped out of the shower. Her skin hurt. She touched her lobster boiled stomach, and when she took her fingers away it left white prints in the red and she didn't recognize her own slowly fading handprint.

* * *

She couldn't remember a time before Brooke. Before a little girl with dark hair swept into a ponytail, and dirt over the knee of a very expensive pair of tights under a very expensive layered skirt had marched up to her on the playground and said "I'm Brooke Davis. You're going to be my friend," with a certainty and arrogance Peyton immediately found irresistible.

She used to try to make Brooke laugh, hoping for a glimpse of those dimples. Not that Brooke was stingy with her smiles or her laughter, but Peyton loved knowing she was the one who made those dimples appear.

She'd envied Brooke, been in awe of her, almost worshipped her. She was beautiful and her clothes were beautiful and she always smelled good and her hair shone and she always said whatever she wanted. She was fearless. Almost supernaturally self-possessed. Peyton wished she could be like her, coveted every moment with her, pored over things they'd done when she was alone. Counted each second with her like a miser. She was so bright and glossy, Peyton just wanted to be near, to collect a little reflected shine.

But worship isn't love, and she didn't truly love Brooke until she saw cracks in the gloss. She'd thought Brooke was fearless, but she'd been wrong. Brooke just didn't fear the same things Peyton did.

* * *

Nathan asked Peyton out, and Brooke made excited motions, pointing and bouncing behind his back. She mouthed the word, "hot," stretching it out with her lips and rolling her eyes up. Peyton bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, then laughed anyway. Nathan turned around, and Brooke whistled innocently.

"You've never been innocent, Brooke," Nathan said.

"Truer words, Nate," she answered with a wink.

"Now can I talk to Peyton alone?"

"I don't know, Nate," Brooke moved to drape her arm over Peyton's shoulders. "Anyone who says three's a crowd isn't using their imagination." She pulled Peyton's head close and pressed a kiss to her temple.

Nathan shook his head. "You never stop, do you?" Brooke shrugged, her arm shifting on Peyton's shoulder. Nathan bounced the basketball he carried, and gave Peyton a sideways look. Brooke was right. He was hot, all dark hair and tallness and lean muscle. "So this Saturday?"

She said yes.

* * *

Brooke was a sloppy drunk. She had the tolerance of a horse, but she pushed herself past it with a deliberation that made Peyton want to grab her face, hold it between her hands and yell, STOP! Brooke didn't drink because everyone else did, and the beer was there, and why not? Brooke didn't lose track of how many she'd had now and then. It took a lot of drinks, a lot of purposeful, deliberate drinks to get Brooke to sloppy. And she took them, every one of them up until that line, for a reason.

Brooke was a messy drunk. It wasn't just that she couldn't keep track of her balance, her words, where she was, or who she was with. It was that she left a mess behind. She said things, spewed destruction from her mouth like a tornado. She whirled in and out of people's lives, tossing her body, her smile around not caring where any of it landed. She woke up the next day, peered through her hangover at what she's said, what she'd done, who'd she'd done it with. And smiled.

She always smiled.

And started counting her way towards drunk again.

Brooke was an affectionate drunk. Brooke was affectionate anyway. She was always touching, tracing the curve of a shoulder, sliding her hand through the crook of an elbow, skidding past ribs, racing up spines. Sober she laced her fingers through other hands as easily, as naturally as talking, as walking, as breathing. Drunk she was everywhere. She slouched next to Peyton on the couch, whiskey on her breath. Her fingers kneaded Peyton's side, then brushed some of Peyton's hair back from her neck. Her head rested against the top of Peyton's head. She slid farther down the couch, boneless and warm, and her head rested against the curve of Peyton's neck.

Then that new kid, the one on the track team, sat down on the other side of Brooke, and her head was on his shoulder. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, and leaned in pressing her breasts against the side of his arm. "Wanna make out?"

Peyton grabbed her beer off the table and stood up.

"Hey, Peyton," Nathan said, sliding his arms around her waist. He stuck his thumb between the waistband of her jeans and her skin, and slid it across her abdomen. She shivered. "I've been looking for you."

Brooke was a very affectionate drunk.

"Yeah?" Peyton said. She turned in his arms, and bit down on his chest through his shirt. "Found me, didn't you."

* * *

"Hey, Peyton," Nathan said, pulling her over so her bare legs tangled with his and her head rested on the warm, sweaty plane of his chest.

"Yeah, Nathan?" she said. She felt pleasantly fulfilled, sore but satisfied. She waited in the silent dark for a long moment, then laughed. "Did you fall asleep or what?" He didn't laugh with her.

"Never mind," he said.

She pulled away, and his fingers slid off her arm. She crooked her elbow and propped her head on her hand, trying to see more than his moonlit silhouette. "What is it?" she said. He stared up at the ceiling. He was quiet so long she thought maybe he really had fallen asleep. She turned and lay flat on her back, her eyes open in the dark.

"Do you…" he said. "I mean, are we… in love?"

She felt him turn to look at her when she didn't answer. She closed her eyes and pretended she was the one who was sleeping.

* * *

Nathan was very good in bed. Not that good anywhere else. He wasn't good about returning calls, or remembering birthdays, or listening to what she said, or liking decent music, or not being a jackass. But sex he was good at.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He could make her come with his fingers, with his tongue, he knew just how to slide in hard the way she liked it, and as long as he wasn't too drunk he always made sure she got off.

As far as things to do when bored went, Nathan wasn't that bad. As far as anything else, Nathan wasn't that good.

* * *

Lucas Scott had good taste in music. He really looked at her sketches, looked at them like he was trying to see more than just the ink on paper, like he was trying to see straight through them into her. He was smart, and he had pretty lips, and blue, blue eyes, and great arms. He moved like his brother on the court, and sometimes Peyton would see his long fingers spread around the curve of a basketball and wonder whether he'd move like his brother did in bed.

But he didn't look at her like Nathan did. He didn't want her like Nathan did, casually, out of habit. He looked at her like he was starving. He looked at her like he wanted to get inside her, know her from the inside out. He looked at her like he couldn't look away. He looked at her like if he had her, he'd never let her go.

When he looked at her, she always had to look away.

* * *

Brooke opened her eyes slowly. Peyton kept the curtains shut on mornings like these because she knew Brooke would be in no condition waking up to deal with things like sunlight. Brooke's hand flew to her head and pressed hard against her temple.

"Okay. Ow," she said.

Peyton put a mug of coffee down on the bedside table. Brooke reached for it blindly, her eyes squeezed shut.

"You're good to me," Brooke sighed into the cup.

"Too good," Peyton said. She slipped back under the covers and turned on her side to face Brooke. Brooke was taking careful sips with her eyes still closed. Her hair was tangled, and her mascara was smudged. Peyton stared at the black streaks that filled the tiny creases on the edges of her eyelids. "So you were hitting it pretty hard last night."

Brooke opened her eyes and looked over at Peyton through her lashes. "Since when is that news?"

Peyton shrugged. She lay back and stared at the ceiling. "Do you ever think it's all kind of pointless?"

"It's supposed to be pointless," Brooke said. "It's a party. That's what it's for. Pointless is fun. Being pointless is the entire point of youth." She giggled and turned her face to Peyton. "That was pretty deep, huh?"

Peyton just smiled and rolled her eyes.

"What's this about?" Brooke asked. "Is it because of you and Nathan?"

"No."

"I mean is it different this time?"

"Different how?"

"Like are you really broken up for good? Or is this another one of your-"

"It's different," Peyton interrupted.

"So is it different because you're having this like midlife crisis or whatever about the point of your life or something?" She put her mug on the end table, and propped herself up gingerly on her side. "Or is it because of something else?" She hesitated. "Like Lucas Scott for example." Peyton turned as well, and they lay together for a moment on their sides, not speaking.

"Breaking up with Nathan isn't about Lucas," Peyton finally said.

"You sure about that?"

"It's not. It's about me and Nathan not being…I don't know, right. We weren't good for each other." She hesitated. "I guess I just had enough."

"So, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Peyton laughed. "It's not like something to cry over. I mean, I should have done it way before now."

"Right," Brooke said. "But are you okay?"

Peyton stopped smiling. Brooke had one hand curled up under her chin. Her eyes were slightly blood-shot, but soft with concern. She reached over and brushed a curl back from Peyton's forehead. For a second it was hard to breathe. "I'll get there," Peyton said because she wouldn't be able to explain the reasons if she said no.

Brooke looked at her hard for a moment, like she wanted to push the issue. She slowly pushed another curl back. But all she said was, "I'm here if you need me."

* * *

"I dare you to kiss Lucas," Brooke said. Her lips were red tonight. Like they were splashed with the blood her teeth and tongue drew with every razor sharp word she flung from them. "Why don't you finally show us how you really feel?"

There it was. Finally. Weeks of circling. Pretending things were what they used to be. And Brooke wasn't pretending anymore. Brooke was fed up with lies and half-truths and evasions. Brooke was laying it out the table with her teeth bared, and blood in the water.

So what would it be? Truth or Dare.

Brooke would choose truth. She didn't make excuses for herself, or who she was. She'd tell her own secrets without flinching. Tell other people's secrets too. Not knowing or not caring that there were reasons people kept things hidden. She had no patience for lies. She expected other people to have the same courage she did. She expected Peyton to be the same kind of brave she was.

She didn't understand that Peyton wasn't hiding things because she wanted to. Or because she didn't trust Brooke.

It's just that she wasn't brave that way.

Peyton grabbed Lucas by the shirt and pulled him until his lips collided hard with hers.

Dare.

* * *

Lucas wanted Peyton. She could see it in the tense of his shoulders. His eyes followed her every time she entered a room, she could feel the pressure of his want against her breastbone, against her hair, against her lips. It pulled at her, constantly asking, seeking, needing. He craved her.

There was power in it.

Brooke wanted Lucas. She never made a secret of that. Brooke wanted a different guy every other week. Brooke wanted everything. Everyone.

Else.

Brooke got what she went after.

Always.

Peyton watched her this time with Lucas. She knew the moves by heart. She knew he would give in eventually. And she knew Brooke would be on to the next one soon enough. Only once Brooke had him, some of the nervous energy seemed to leave her. She wasn't constantly looking for the next thing. She wasn't looking for something else. Anything else. She was looking at him. Just him.

But he was still looking at Peyton.

There was power in it.

* * *

"It's always the two of us, isn't it?" Brooke said after cheerleading practice when everyone was gone, and they were tossing the used towels in the laundry.

"Seems like," Peyton said.

Brooke grabbed Peyton from behind and put her arms around Peyton's waist and rested her cheek against Peyton's shoulder. "It seems like we don't talk as much anymore."

"Seems like."

"I miss you, Peyton." Peyton loved Brooke's voice when it turned into a hoarse whisper, soft and forceful at once. "You don't talk to me anymore." This quieter than a whisper, just a breath. Brooke rubbed her cheek against Peyton's shoulder, then unwrapped her arms and let Peyton go.

Peyton tried to think what to say. But the one thing she wanted to say, couldn't say, would never say, filled up her throat, lay down on her tongue, kept her from saying anything at all. When Peyton turned, Brooke was smiling like always. Like she couldn't feel the space between them. Like she didn't know Peyton was putting that space there.

"We should hang out this weekend," Peyton finally said, knowing it was worse than not enough.

Brooke cocked her head, and those eyes searched her. Peyton tried not to flinch, tried not to blink, blink out secrets in morse code, spell out please. Please.

Please. Don't. Blink.

"Hey, Brooke," Lucas called. "Are you still in there or did you slip out the back?"

"Coming, boyfriend!" Brooke said, and grabbed her duffle. She shot a smile at Peyton over her shoulder. Brooke always smiled. "This weekend for sure."

Peyton's vision swam as her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, and turned quickly in case Brooke looked back again. The door to the locker room swung shut, and she was alone.

* * *

She hated herself. She was scum. Brooke trusted her. Brooke was her best friend. She couldn't remember a time without Brooke. She didn't know anyone else like Brooke. Brooke had the softest skin, the brightest eyes of anyone she knew.

Brooke looked at this boy like he was something so special.

Brooke wanted this boy. But not just want. This was different. Brooke ached for this boy. Brooke let this boy in. Inside, behind the dimples. In where she was uncertain and afraid. Brooke let this boy see what she never showed any boy.

Brooke loved this boy. Maybe.

Peyton didn't want Lucas. Not like Brooke wanted Lucas. But she took him.

Because he was what Brooke wanted.

And what Peyton wanted she could never have.

End


End file.
